This week has been a week of warm fuzzies (plus a giveaway–see details at the end of this post).  Special thanks to my fellow writers in Rachael Harrie’s platform building campaign and in Kristen Lamb’s WANA class. From your supportive comments and tweets to blog awards I feel like I have my very own virtual, but cozy Linus blanket.

Thank you!

On that note, wonderful and brilliant YA author Juliana L. Brandt is hosting the Warm Fuzzies Blogfest and this week she posed this question:

” How do you broach the subject of being a writer to other people who aren’t authors?”

It’s not always easy, like Juliana writes in her post.  Here’s a post I wrote a couple of months ago on the subject:

SO HOW’S THAT NOVEL COMING?

The writing process is slow. Couple it with the publishing process and the fact that writing is mostly a solitary living-in-a-shell like activity, and you are looking at a lifestyle that is turtle club worthy.

At least it comes with a great motto:

Slow and steady wins the race.

This is a good thing to keep in mind, especially when you emerge from your shell for food, showers, more work (you mean there’s other stuff to do?) and seeing your family and friends only to hear questions like:

You still working on that novel?

Do you have an end yet? Because I have a really good idea…

When am I going to see it in Barnes and Noble?

What’s for dinner? (Oh wait, you may or may not get that one, depends on whether or not your kids are old enough to call for pizza.)

When I hear these questions, my mind scrambles for some sort of summary update, sifting through all the work looking for something that is akin to handing them a hardcover copy of my book.

Um, yeah.

You write. You read. You edit. You write some more. You put the story away for a while and start work on another. Then you pick it back up and read. Then you edit, write some more. Then get some people to read and comment and then edit some more. Then write a query letter and edit that, and get some people to read that. Write. Edit. Then send it out to agents and/or some small publishers (because the big ones will not look at it without the agent). Wait and wait. Work on the next story . . .

I am going to stop here because if you are a writer you know all this, and if you’re not, then you are probably wondering why anyone would actually comply with such a process.

It sounds crazy, right?

It’s a slow process. Turtle-y slow.

So I remind myself to take a chill pill when I get the questions, because yes I’m still working on that novel (actually two, both with endings, but you never know I might use your good idea someday).

(Oh and the dinner question? Only requires microwave skills, because the pizza is in the freezer.)

And as for Barnes and Noble (or Amazon)?

I don’t know–YET (this is the key word here, print it, cut it out and attach it to something).

Because if you love it, you do it and when the questions come, you can think about Stewie.

Yes, I give you Stewie. Because sometimes I just need to relax about the whole process and squeak out a laugh instead of taking myself too seriously. Besides, as Stewie says, we all deserve some time off (even if we sometimes let our kids eat pizza from the freezer).

Speaking of pizza, if you’re headed to the freezer can you get me some? It’s the gluten-free one, with the tapioca cheese . . .

 

Have a great weekend.

 

 

 

 “Thirty days and nights of literary abandon.”

 

November 1st is the start of National Novel Writing Month NaNoWriMo.  This year I am going to participate and write in honor of my brother.

I first heard about NaNoWriMo five years ago, and used the general principles to write my first middle grade story.  I’d been filling notebooks with stories for years, but I did it strictly for the fun of it.  Suddenly I wanted to do more and NaNo seemed like the perfect way to launch that spark.  So I started writing with more of a purpose.  The only person I told at the time (other than my husband) was my brother.  I remember him being fascinated by the idea of writing a thousand plus words a day.  He was a creative type–he drew, wrote, cooked (even went to culinary school), so he was the perfect person to understand the need to do a writing marathon in a month.

When I finished that first draft, I put it away to read it at a later date with fresh eyes.  Then, when the time came to go back to it, I decided I didn’t really want to write.  So I went out and got a job, leaving the story behind.

I was afraid.  Afraid to read the rough draft.  Afraid of what it would mean to move forward with my writing.  So I went about life and work without it.

And then a couple of months later, my brother died.

It was sudden–a brain aneurysm.  He was 31.

My brother was so funny.  He did the best Chewbacca impression ever.  He was also incredibly kind.  Maybe it’s the sharp finality of death that smooths away the rough edges of a life, but I truly can’t remember him ever being anything but nice to me.

But I think he was hard on himself.  He had unrealized dreams.  He had physical obstacles, like when he stopped working in restaurants because he couldn’t be on his feet for that many hours (he battled Type 1 diabetes starting from the age of 11).  But I think maybe some of his biggest struggles were more internal.  He got bogged down by dark moments, the kind that show up to shadow your plans and leave you filled with self-doubt and fear.

I know that fear.

I have one of my brother’s journals.  In it there’s the beginnings of a story, some sketches and some personal notes he wrote to himself.  One of those notes sticks with me:

“Write damn you! Write! Anything, something, Please!”

My first instinct is to feel sad at that personal plea to his self, but then I realize that goes against what he wrote.  Because he didn’t want to get stuck in those paralyzing fears.

In fact the first line in the journal he wrote is: “Life is for enjoying.”

I remember my aunt said at his funeral that she was sad because she couldn’t learn anything more from him and I get that because I would love to know what he would have thought of the LOST finale (our last conversation happened to be about the beginning episodes of season three and the oh so random subject of peanut butter).  I also am curious what his thoughts would be regarding Twitter, the Kindle or his take on the whole new world of publishing.  I would love to hear his opinion on all of this crazy writing stuff I’ve been pursuing. Plus I wonder if he too would be blogging, putting his writing and drawings out there. Tweeting.

But then again I know now, five years later, that I am still learning from him.

I am learning not to be afraid.  I am learning not to worry about regret.

And I am learning to enjoy my life, from random peanut butter moments to marathon writing months.

my brother daniel patrick opt

 My brother, Dan

What are you looking forward to?

 

 

So this week I planned on writing about the season premiere of The Walking Dead and possibly the insanity that was the Real Housewives of New Jersey reunion, but then I was confronted with something a tad bit scarier than a rogue zombie herd and middle age bullies in heels.

My teenage daughter announced her latest plan: she would rather take the GED test than finish high school.

WHAT (or wAHt in Jersey speak or rAWrrr in zombie)?

Scary for a parent to hear, but I guess I wasn’t that surprised considering it was only the latest in a long string of big ideas and grandiose plans.

You see my daughter has one objective, kind of like a zombie (only in that they both have one objective, because of course my daughter is smart, beautiful and has way better teeth).

Zombies only want “food” and my daughter just can’t wait to leave home.  It is her motivation for everything, but apparently this week graduation seemed too far off.  It’s a mere 18 months away, but you see that’s seventy-two years in Teen speak.

Anyway, this week she decided that maybe finishing high school wasn’t necessary.

My first instinct was to sprout six-inch heels from my feet and  flip a table Teresa Giudice style (hey I am technically a Jersey girl).

But I contained myself.  Instead I pulled out the big adult speak–dropout and GED statistics, the cost of rent, insurance, food, etc.  The fact that she did not own her precious car she’s been driving for the last couple of months.  The fact that simple dental upkeep is not cheap.  Um, did she want zombie teeth?

The truly frustrating matter of the whole interaction was my apparent inability to convince her of the holes in her plans.

What I want to know is when did I lose the ability to speak Teen? I mean I know what it’s like to be a teenager, I spent seven of my own precious years as a teenager.  Plus, I already know what it’s like to move on to adulthood, accept responsibility and even give over a huge chunk of my life over to said kid and yet somehow it’s as if I need an interpreter to speak to my own child.

It was like she didn’t hear a word I said.  When did I become Charlie Brown’s teacher?

I felt like my daughter and I were transported to a Bravo TV couch in the middle of a Real Housewives  reunion.  Nothing she said made any sense, but it didn’t matter what I thought, because well, everything I said was apparently just plain stupid.

Or as Caroline Manzo said this week in the reunion, “I am in a whirlwind of stupid.”

Oh Andy Cohen, do you make house calls?

Anyway the “conversation” ended when my daughter went to work.  I stewed, alongside my husband, both of us wondering where we went wrong.

Then we watched our zombies (The Walking Dead), then I watched my zombies in prettier packages (Real Housewives of New Jersey).

The next day my daughter came home from school and said, “Sorry, I was in a weird mood yesterday.  Don’t worry, I plan on finishing high school.”

And I thought the zombie apocalypse sounded hard.